Nice little Valentine's Day special. Should have honestly uploaded yesterday, but I think it's still February 14th somewhere. Yes, the story will continue after the epilogue but it will really only be drabble as that was the proper finish to the proper story bit.

Valentine's Day

"Tom!"

They were in London. Their first Valentine's Day together. Sybil had finally recovered from the death of Whitney Houston - the admiration celebrities reserved for each other was phenomenal; plus, she had to be continuously weeping in remorse and grievance for the persistent paparazzi, and random street photographers.

Not exactly the Grammy's, they were in America, but Sybil had received an invitation to the BAFTA's. Tom hadn't. She had ended up sitting between a man he had never heard of, Jean something-or-other who is an uprising star from France, and that Arlene Phillips who supposedly made a right prat of herself. Tom watched it all on TV, with popcorn, but poised to switch to DAVE or GOLD in a heartbeat. Stephen Fry was a saint, though, and livened it up. Besides that, she was the only reason he was watching. He didn't usually succumb to fan boy-ism but found himself routing for those from his favourite films and TV shows. 'The Iron Lady' he had gone to watch with Sybil – she had a thing for influential women and politics, like him, and so he was fully behind Meryl Streep as Best Actress (of the decade) he ruefully added as he nearly chucked the microwaved popcorn in the air. Then that silent actor who appeared to have been annoying his fiancée all night bagged Best Actor. Don't get him wrong, he's seen 'The Artist' – just had no respect for a silent chuckle brother who was, A, foreign (the 'B' in BAFTA stands for British, right?) and, B, was annoying the woman he loved from, C, egotistically trying to woo her. It almost seemed too bad that no-one knew she was taken, especially from the fact that once they'd met Tom no man would look at her ever again.

Finally, at the end of the night and having to turn off the show early, Tom picked her up in some posh limo with tinted windows. She hopped in the back, called at the chauffeur before realising it was him, then hopped past the mini-fridge and flat screen to land practically on top of him when he tipped his hat and grinned in the rear-view mirror and, like she had just now, squeaked his name.

He gets up, dragging himself out of the minimalist plain steel bed with all-white sheets and covers, and his subconscious lulls him to follow the sweet scent of maple syrup and golden honey. Both were spread on some homemade pancakes she was currently tucking into. Catching sight of him, she drops the cutlery and comes up behind, hugging his neck and kissing his cheek before putting her hands over his eyes. He groaned. "Follow me." She was excited, and led him into the adjoining open living area. Sybil had to walk on her tiptoes behind him, then down the step and removed her hands. The curtains were still shut and, as he was donned in just boxers, she didn't draw them. There was a neatly wrapped box on the glass table between the two facing sofas. He sat down on the left one and picked the box up then put it down on his lap, patting the cushion on his right for her to sit down. She sat and lifted the box off his lap. She was dressed in some baggy pajama bottoms and a fitted yellow t-shirt, her hair was brushed and he kissed the top of her head.

"Can I wait 'till after breakfast to open it."

"A-huh." she sounded a bit dejected but stood and cheerily skipped back to the table. "Do you want syrup?"

"Honey, please." He then raced back to their room. Returning, he was sat in a chair, a plate pushed along the table to settle in front of him and an expectant face from Sybil, who took her place opposite. Her perfectly manicured nails drummed against the polished wood. He began to devour the pancakes as he had the bacon that day. Something was different, though, and he longed for her to tell him whatever it was, the elephant in the room that was causing all this unnecessary tension. He put his knife and fork down, and waited.

"I think I might be pregnant." Drat. Yep, it was his fault, no denying that. He swallowed what sort-of remained of his last mouthful. What in the hell should he say?

"Do you want it?"

"Yes." That was a quick exchange.

"Are you happy?"

"Very." This could get annoying.

"Do you want to open my present now?"

"Huh?" He got up, half-finished breakfast going cold, and took her hand. He walked her to the open space between the table and the step then, still holding her hand, got down on one knee.

"I wanted to do this properly, for you." And he took the little white box from his pocket. It was perfectly camouflaged in their simplistic flat. With his free hand, having not let go of hers once yet, he flipped the lid and looked up willingly, nervously, innocently and still confidently into her eyes. "Sybil Crawley, will you do me the honour of marrying me, and be my wife." Surprisingly, he was prepared for if she said 'no' this time. Sadly, he hadn't wagered for if she didn't say a thing. Her free hand rushed to her mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping, and she just nodded. The free hand was her left, and she lowered it again. Tears welling in her eyes and misting the beautiful blue-green, he released her right to slide the ring elegantly onto her ring finger.

It fit perfectly. They could worry about everything else in just a minute, but for now, nothing should break their very special moment together.